The skirmish was one which I did not in the least relish, being aware that I stood an excellent chance of receiving a shot or a pike-thrust, without gaining an atom of honour; and that a severe reprimand, perhaps a court-martial, would be the consequence, if our general learned that I was prowling about like a wandering knight, and brawling with the constituted authorities, when I should have been riding, post-haste, with the papers which M’Leod so carefully prepared for his perusal—and for which our ambassador at Palermo was no doubt waiting with the utmost impatience. The provincial horses are famous for their strength and speed, and Santugo’s cattle carried us across the country at a tremendous pace. We were closely followed by the exasperated troopers of the Masse, who now and then fired a shot after us, by way of giving us a relish to our ride. "Which way, visconte?" cried I. "To the villa: it is our safest—our only halting-place. The mountains are too far off." "By Jupiter! I feel half inclined to turn and show fight, if they continue to fire at us thus." "Would to Heaven and San Ugo, that Giacomo and any four of my old sbirri were here!" exclaimed the visconte, as he fired his pistols at random. The last shot _told_ (as we say) effectually. A cry was heard: I looked back for a moment, and saw by the moonlight a man rolling in agony on the road, while his horse was rushing to the rear at full gallop. "It is no sinecure being on the staff here, truly," thought I, as we pulled up in the quadrangle of the villa, after having distanced our pursuers by two miles. The gruff clamour of male voices swearing in most guttural Neapolitan, the shrill cries of women, and the confusion reigning within the mansion, announced to my friend that the enemies of his peace had penetrated to the very centre of his household; armed equally with carnal and legal weapons, warrants of the church and state, and assisted by the followers of Bivona, who wore the red cockade of the Masse. "Francesca is lost, and for me nothing now remains but to die! Oh! my cousin—my love—my wife, I alone am guilty!" exclaimed Santugo, in a piercing voice, as he leaped from his horse, drew his sword, and rushed up the marble staircase towards the apartment where the greatest uproar seemed to reign. The chamber which had concealed the fugitive from the field of Benevento, in the days of Charles of Anjou, had not availed his descendant now. Dragged forth from the vault below the round tower, we beheld the unhappy Francesca, almost inanimate from terror, in the hands of two rough-looking fellows who wore the bishop’s livery: a kind of monkish garb, with which their black cross belts and cartridge-boxes, and flaming scarlet cockades, but ill accorded. Overcome with shame and horror, the poor girl drooped like a crushed flower in their rude grasp.